


Playing an Old Game

by Willa Shakespeare (AnonEhouse)



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Fairly Mild S&M, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonEhouse/pseuds/Willa%20Shakespeare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the 2008 Kink ficathon. Prompt was: Gunplay/ Historical roleplay/knifeplay /bondage (immobility)</p><p>As B7 is set in the future, Sarkoff's playroom of antiques is kinda historical. Since it's Avon there's always a little wangst, but basically it's a fairly mild take on the given kinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing an Old Game

(If you are reading this on any PAY site this is a STOLEN WORK, the author has NOT Given Permission for it to be here. If you're paying to read it, you're being cheated too because you can read it on Archiveofourown for FREE.)

Avon was bored. He didn't know why he'd agreed to join Blake and the others on a tour of Sarkoff's home on Lindor. Granted, it was a mansion, and at first Sarkoff's eclectic collection of antique Earth artifacts was intriguing, but the hodge-podge way things were assembled turned it all into a visual rubbish tip.

At the point where Jenna was making polite comments about end-of-day Bakelite ashtrays, Avon faded to the rear of the group with the intention of teleporting back up to the ship, but then it occurred to him that some of the collection might actually be worth money. Sarkoff would never miss it if he helped himself to something from one of the back rooms. He walked along corridors, trying doors. If it opened, he glanced in and looked around, but he didn't expect much from the easily accessible rooms. 

He came to a locked door. That was more like it. Vila had taught him how to open simple locks. He took a pick from his boot heel and opened the door, revealing a long set of steps leading downward. That had possibilities.

Several flights downward and three locked doors later, Avon looked with bemusement on a basement. A basement refinished as living quarters, apparently, judging by the four-poster bed in the center, and the various articles of furniture around. He sighed and started to turn away.

"Oh, don't go now," Sarkoff said from somewhere off to his left. As Avon jerked around to face him, President Sarkoff stepped out of an alcove with a weapon casually held in his hand. "This is real, you see. It's very old, and very delicate, but I'm assured it will still function."

"You wouldn't dare." Avon started to lift his wrist so he could press the button on his bracelet for teleport recall. Sarkoff shot him. Avon screamed and fell to the floor, shaking all over.

"It's called a taser," Sarkoff said chattily, while stepping closer to Avon. "And I see it still works. How do you like that?"

Avon couldn't quite keep back a moan. He whispered, "It's good."

Sarkoff stopped and looked at Avon. He smiled in delight. "I should have guessed from all that leather." He shot Avon again.

Avon screamed and curled up in agony. Sarkoff knelt beside him and stroked his hair. "This is my playroom. I want to strip you naked, tie you to my bed and use you mercilessly. I want to hurt you and see you cry. What do you say to that?"

Avon licked his lips. "Please." Sarkoff grabbed him by his hair and pulled him to his feet. He put his mouth against Avon's ear. "I'll give you the pain you want, and you'll play the game I want. Agreed?"

Avon nodded without asking what game, or what the rules or limits would be. He really should insist on a safeword. Or at least define what Sarkoff's kinks were ahead of time. But he'd been so long without getting properly laid that he didn't want to risk spoiling the mood. If Sarkoff turned petulant and kicked him out... no... besides, Sarkoff wasn't that tough. Avon could take anything the man could think up.

Sarkoff flung Avon onto the bed. When Avon reflexively tried to sit up, Sarkoff shot him again. Avon screamed and then lay, panting and unresisting as Sarkoff stripped him naked and surveyed him closely. "Now, let's see," Sarkoff mused, "Who shall you be? Not the Birdman... the feathers made me sneeze." He turned to the nearest antique armoire and flung the doors open. Avon gazed in at a collection of strange clothing, all jumbled together in a heap. "Mmm...Ah! I've got it. Houdini! He opened locks, too. Pity I don't have a Water Torture tank... but I do have this!" He pulled out a heavy-looking jacket with extremely long sleeves. He smiled at Avon. "Go on, put up a fight."

Three tazings later, Avon moaned and let Sarkoff put the jacket on him. He yelped and tried to struggle when he realized where the dangling strap in front was going.

"Bad boy," Sarkoff said mildly as he drew the strap between Avon's legs and cinched it to the jacket in the back. He shoved Avon facedown on the bed and groped his arse. "Hmmm... this design is flawed." He played with the canvas strap, tugging on it from side to side while Avon moaned and squirmed.

"That will never do." He sighed. "I hate to ruin an antique, but there it is, this simply will not do." Sarkoff got off the bed and rummaged around in a dresser drawer. His hand came out with an object that Avon didn't recognize until it sprang open. "There are very few genuine switch-blade knives extant, you know, my dear. I keep this one oiled and honed very, very sharp."

Avon's mouth went dry. "I think perhaps you misunderstand me."

"No, I think perhaps you misunderstand yourself." Sarkoff moved closer to Avon, light from a crystal chandelier glinting off the knife-blade. "I think you enjoy pain, my friend, but you like to pretend you're in control. But that makes the experience not altogether satisfying for you, doesn't it? Knowing that you have merely to say 'no, I don't like that'? Well, you needn't worry about that." Sarkoff smiled and walked over to Avon. He gripped Avon's hair, pulling his head back and laying the edge of the knife against Avon's throat. "I am ruler of this planet. You are nothing. I could kill you and no one would ever so much as censure me."

"Blake..." Avon froze as the knife moved cold against his skin.

"Blake is a practical man. Far more so than you, I think. When I return the corpse of a would-be burglar along with my regrets that my automated security system was too efficient... well, what do you think he will do? What can he do? He needs my support. He'll accept my story."

Avon closed his eyes. Sarkoff was wrong. Blake would be furious, but... Avon would still be dead. The knife pulled away from his skin.

Sarkoff leaned close and whispered into Avon's ear, "Ah, so that's not a good fantasy for you." He kissed Avon's cheek. "It's all right. It's only a game, sweetheart. But you do rather like the idea of the knife, don't you? I saw how you responded to it."

Avon nodded, with his eyes still shut. He hated that Sarkoff was able to read him so well, but he needed to be read. He couldn't just say 'I need pain, I need someone to control me.'

Sarkoff traced the tip of the knife around Avon's throat. "You are very pretty, my boy. And you are my boy, aren't you?"

Avon nodded again, but this time a nod wasn't enough for Sarkoff. The knife traced a swift line along his thigh, the pain and sting of blood coming a second later with Avon's recoil. "Yes!" Avon said, more in a vain attempt to hide the arousal that flash of pain caused than in an attempt to appease.

Sarkoff sighed. "You're very badly trained. And I see that you aren't really my boy. Still, I'm sure Blake won't mind if I borrow you."

Avon bit back his instinctive protest that Blake didn't own him. Then he gasped again at the feel of cool metal on his inner thigh, tracing up against his groin, up against his testicles. "Please!" A firm hand gripped him.

"Hold still, or I really shall injure you."

Avon froze in place, hardly daring to breathe as Sarkoff cut a hole in the center of the binding strap. The knife slid down and around his testicles, threatening, and then withdrew. 

"Kneel. Head down. And don't you _dare_ think about Blake."

Awkardly, Avon obeyed, heart racing.

After all the foreplay, the actual intercourse wasn't as exciting as Avon had hoped. Sarkoff was well-endowed and obviously experienced, but it just... damn. It took a knowing twist of Sarkoff's hand before Avon found his release, and then he closed his eyes and waited stoically for the President to finish.

Sarkoff pulled out and lay beside Avon, catching his breath. "Sorry."

Avon snarled and sliced his way free of the jacket, using the laser probe he'd palmed when being bound. He got up and tossed the rags of it onto Sarkoff, who merely grinned at him and said, "Hurrah! You are a Houdini." Avon stalked over to his clothes and got dressed in angry jerks.

"Give my love to Blake," Sarkoff said with a smirk. "Or better still, give him yours."

Avon turned his back on Sarkoff and called for teleport. _Love Blake? Sarkoff must be insane._


End file.
